


Insider Tactics

by Jet44



Category: Numb3rs (TV), Original Work, Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: ATF, American Politics, Angst, Bromance, Civil Rights, Crime Scenes, Crimes & Criminals, Death penalty, Developing Friendships, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethics, FBI, FBI agents, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Female Character of Color, Gay Male Character, Gen, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Idealism, Interrogation, Jail, LGBTQ Character of Color, Law Enforcement, Male Friendship, Men Crying, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Near Future, Original Character(s), POV Jewish Character, Police Brutality, Terrorism, Trauma, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:42:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/Jet44
Summary: Resistance to new Federal gun laws leads to a brutal ATF crackdown, and idealistic young FBI agent Marshal Tate of the Bureau's Civil Rights Unit is assigned to combat the excesses of power.... until the FBI is ordered out, an activist is murdered, and protesters seize the county courthouse, taking hostages. When the situation ends in blood, Marshal is determined to find out how and why it got to this point - and solves his first murder case. But all is not as it seems, and Marshal finds more than he bargained for when the clues start pointing towards a high-level government figure.The first in a series of mysteries following Agent Tate as he matures in his career while remaining determined to uphold high standards of ethics and compassion in law enforcement - and uncovers deep rifts of corruption in our government.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original work which I plan to publish as a novel; I'm posting it here so that fans of my fanfic can keep up with the progress if you want. Hopefully this will help keep me motivated to write! It's the first in a series. While this is a wholly original novel, we caught a glimpse of Marshal Tate in Tsunami, my White Collar fanfic. 
> 
> I'm heavily inspired by my love for White Collar, Flashpoint, Numb3rs, Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural, and Firefly. My hope is to capture the things we love in the best on-screen fictional heroes, only in written format. 
> 
> Because this is a work in progress, I may go back and revise earlier chapters - and considerable editing will need to take place. If you like it and are moved to take the time to comment, I'd be thrilled!

**City of Lawrenceville, Gwinnett County, Georgia**

Marshal Tate had heard of situations exploding, but this time it was literal. A deep whump, and before he could react a metal gargoyle head splattered to the pavement ahead of his FBI-issue black Suburban. He slammed on the brakes amid indignant yelps from the ATF agent handcuffed and strapped into his back seat.

Marshal peered through the windshield as the truck screeched sideways to a halt. Little chunks of concrete were raining on his hood with a tinking sound, but he couldn’t see anything amiss except for debris. And a beheaded gargoyle.

A man in a yellow polo shirt sprinted in front of them, coughing. He froze, staring at the windshield, headlights reflected in his eyes. His clothes and skin were ashen with dust, and he raised his hands as if to shove away the oncoming vehicle. The golf bag slung over his shoulder yanked him off balance, and he staggered sideways.

“Hey! Hey! What the --” ATF Agent Haynes screamed from the back seat.

“I’m stopped!” yelled Marshal in an equally aggrieved shout.

The panicked bystander realized the same thing and bolted for the sidewalk.

“That was—” Haynes cut himself off.

“Probably a bomb,” finished Marshal.

Mental images of collapsing towers and secondary devices made Marshal hit the accelerator. He wasn’t about to risk getting someone in his custody killed, even though that somebody could frankly use a good killing.

He peeled away, counting city blocks as he flashed past brick-fronted cafes and storefronts with hanging petunia baskets and heavy cloth awnings.

How high was the tallest building in downtown Lawrenceville, anyway? Was there some formula for this, a word problem in a math book for FBI agents fleeing a bombing?

Five blocks out, Marshal let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pulled to the curb by a no parking sign and lit up his blue flashing lights. 

Silence hung in hot, humid air, shattered by car alarms awakened by the blast. Vehicles stopped in the street, hazard lights blinking. Marshal craned his neck to see settling clouds of concrete dust and the shimmer of heat rising from asphalt.

The ATF agent unleashed a pack of expletives and kicked the seat-back in front of him, 250 pounds of aggrieved fury making the Suburban rock but accomplishing little else.

Marshal grabbed his radio. “CR-3 to all units, there’s been an explosion downtown.”

“Copy,” responded Supervisory Special Agent Hacker, voice tight and controlled. “You secure?”

“Affirmative, five blocks out - left the scene because I got a prisoner on board,” said Marshal.

“CR-3, stand by.” 

Marshal got out of the truck and looked down the street through binoculars. Sirens closed in from all directions. People ran, shouting and pointing and dropping shopping bags as though they were the only ones to notice. An almost imperceptible shift in the light grew as sun filtered through spreading dust. Dirty gray smoke drifted from a shattered window in the second floor of an unpainted ten-story concrete building. A sharp odor of gunpowder and burning carpet joined the dull tickle of concrete dust in his throat.

The wall near the window was blown out, and a headless gargoyle teetered on the fractured ledge. A strand of ivy was the only thing holding it in place.

Marshal’s stomach hit the floor. Minutes ago, he had been standing in one of those second floor rooms, arresting Agent Haynes. 

Marshal radioed in to SSA Hacker. “CR-1, do you copy?”

“CR-1, go ahead.” 

“Visible damage to the Gwinnet Grand Hotel, on the second floor where the ATF are staying.”

“Stand by.”

The damage didn’t look too bad, certainly not enough to collapse the building. People streamed out, an orderly evacuation underway as a fire truck started raising a lift towards the blown-out wall.

His phone rang. “Marshal, it’s Hacker. City police are getting reports someone fired an RPG at the hotel. No reported casualties so far.”

“RPG? As in rocket-propelled grenade?” asked Marshal.

“Yep.”

Marshal scratched the back of his head and squinted. Maybe someone had their Georgias mixed up and thought this was the Balkans, and they’d wound up putting holes in the sweet tea capitol of the United States instead.

“Should I check it out?” Marshal asked.

“No, head for the jail and drop off your prisoner,” said Hacker.

“Wait - I’m an FBI agent, someone fired an RPG into a hotel, and I’m supposed to drive away?” asked Marshal, dubious.

“Unless you joined Counterterrorism while I wasn’t looking, yep. I’m gonna need you at the courthouse,” said Hacker.

The fact that an RPG had been fired at ATF agents in a pleasant Georgia town and it wasn’t even the FBI’s top priority was moderately hair-raising. Even more so was the fact that Marshal agreed with Hacker’s call.

* * *

 

He was more concerned that the second civil war could break out at the county courthouse within the next few hours, and he didn’t want to be stuck at the hotel if it happened.

“How’s it going down there?” asked Marshal. He got back into the truck, welcoming the air conditioning. His vocal ATF agent seemed to have simmered down a little. “What’s the mood?”

“Uh....livid,” said Hacker. “There’s a delegation meeting with Governor Delaney and a judge. ATF joined last minute. If the delegation comes out pissed off, it’ll get ugly fast.”

“Fantastic.” Marshal wiped sweat and dust from his face. 

“Shit,” said Hacker. The call went fuzzy for a minute while she conferred with others in the background. “Tate. You know Hardie Baker?”

“Second Amendment hero of the county, conspiracy theory guy who used his gun to save a busload of school kids a few years back?” said Marshal. 

“Just found murdered at his, um, compound.”

Marshal looked back over his shoulder at the hotel, where a thick column of smoke was darkening to black. “That’s not gonna make the gun people too happy. It hit the news yet?”

“That’s how we found out,” said Hacker. “Along with the initial report was an interview with one of his buddies, speculating that the ATF murdered him.”

“So, riot?” said Marshal.

“Any minute now,” said Hacker. “Get your ass to the jail and back here, ASAP.”

Marshal switched off his flashers and pulled back into traffic.

Most of the three thousand protesters at the county courthouse were armed. They were Second Amendment supporters, joining their county sheriff Harvey Gillis in defying new gun laws. With a small-scale war brewing between the ATF and Georgia residents, Marshal’s Civil Rights Unit was poised in the crossfire - and sidelined by the higher-ups.

The radio broke in before he made it ten blocks. “All agents, ten-fifteen, Gwinnett County Courthouse.”

10-15. Civil disturbance. In this case, an official euphemism for “riot”. The other team members checked in with their locations, most already on scene.

“CR-3, you got a copy?” 

Marshal snatched the mic. “CR-3.” He dropped it for just long enough to flip his flashing lights back on.

“We’re outside the courthouse. It’s being overrun. Divert from the jail and get here.”

Marshal had the address saved in the favorites of his GPS, and he punched it in at a red light. He’d only been in Lawrenceville for a couple weeks, and misdirecting to the county animal shelter wouldn’t be a shining moment in his fledgling FBI career.

He turned right and accelerated towards the courthouse, swerving around a bicycle abandoned on the side of the road. He hit his siren, and the radio crackled to life again. “Be advised, we’ve got hostages. ATF, possibly the Governor.”

“Copy,” replied Marshal. It sounded better than _holy shit_. 

A few drops of rain from a gathering summer thunderstorm splashed off the hood, and the streets of Lawrenceville started to empty. Summer in Georgia was beautiful, but right now it was turning ugly.

Agent Haynes started screaming behind him. “Turn on my radio!”

Marshal glanced at the pile of gear he’d seized from the agent when arresting him. The radio was there, turned off. Last thing he needed right now was another radio blaring at him.

“For the love of God - my agents are in there. Please, turn it on, you little f-” 

Marshal wasn’t inclined to give him the time of day.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Day Before**

Hardie Baker lived at the end of a one-lane gravel road that nosed its way through thick banks of blackberries and under tall, scrubby trees. There was only one way in or out by vehicle, and it was alarmed and watched on camera. The blackberries surrounding the property were no mistake; Hardie cultivated nature’s razor wire with the same care he took in stockpiling soybeans and penicillin.

One day, the killer had even seen ole’ Hardie Baker out there fertilizing them with chicken poop. It’d taken three weeks to discover all the carefully concealed paths Hardie maintained through the 100-acre testimonial to southern stereotypes. The killer’s buddies didn’t believe a place like this really existed outside of the movies.

A twig snapped, and the killer froze. It was the second time out here he’d gotten the feeling someone else was in this thicket. A crow flew up, cawing in irritation at the disturbance. The killer listened intently, frozen in place, for a good ten minutes. Utter silence rewarded him, and he decided he was getting as paranoid as old Hardie.

The killer eased himself along one of the twisting trails, doing one final scan for hidden trail cameras as he moved. Hardie was tech-savvy and paranoid; killing him was left no room for error. He cursed as a blackberry cane caught his arm and ripped his skin. Fucking hick wasn’t dumb. Most second-amendment survivalist types thought their underground bunkers and guns would save them. Hardie Baker had the bunker, the guns, the gardens and sickly livestock and booby traps and ill-tempered attack dogs.

But he also had the impenetrable thicket of blackberries, and night-vision cameras and drones and feeds automatically uploaded to cloud storage. Those were the real security precautions, and unfortunately Hardie was smart enough to use them well.

The official ATF raid had come up with nothing, because Hardie had seen them coming literally miles away. They hadn’t been able to “encourage” Hardie to show them where the guns were hidden because by the time the agents reached the door, Hardie was live-streaming the encounter to YouTube.

The only way to take Hardie down was to take him down. Dirty and off the books. It wasn’t a hard choice to make. He could kill one anti-government extremist, or let the man continue to spread guns and propaganda that could kill hundreds and maybe even destabilize the United States.

 

* * *

 

“I’m worried a”bout ya, man,” said Kyle Peterson.

Hardie shrugged. “I reckon I’ll be killed soon, yeah. You seen what the government’s doing to all of us that stand up for our rights. Even had an ATF agent sneak out here off the clock to warn me. It’s comin’ any day now.”

“Fuggin Nazis,” muttered Kyle. “If those white-power dipshits had just known their place, an’ not tried to reverse the course of history, none of this woulda happened.”

“Wasn’t just the Nazis,” said Hardie. “The left-wing anti-gun lobby’s part of this. Not to mention, private prison lobby’s scared shitless now that drugs are going legal, so they’re trying to make gun owners the next big wave of inmates.”

“Land of the free, my ass,” said Kyle with a sigh, taking a glug of Miller Lite and resting his feet on the coffee table of hand-hewn lumber. “I still say the Nazis got the population so scared of a rebellion against democracy or what have you, that the feds finally got the excuse they wanted all along to take our guns.”

“It’s a lotta things,” said Hardie. “I’ll prob’ly go to my grave wondering if I’m right about who took the ATF off leash and why. Seems almost like trying to provoke civil war, to me. Setting the ATF against the FBI? It’s like the twilight zone.”

One of the motion-detector alarms pipped. Hardie brought up all the nearby trail cams on his computer screen, but saw nothing. The day before, he’d caught the edge of a camo jacket. Darkness was closing in. Alarms were growing more frequent.

He had a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach now. Would it be outright murder, or shot upon “resisting arrest,” or would he survive to spend decades in prison somewhere? Maybe it depended who got to him first. He didn’t know which he’d prefer; he just wished he couldn’t see it coming so clearly.

Hardie checked his gear. The drives the cameras were recording to would be seized and probably destroyed, if it were to be murder. Then they’d crack his passwords, and delete the copies automatically uploaded to the cloud. With any luck, cracking the passwords would take long enough that the live stream on YouTube would broadcast his death, but he wasn’t going to count on it.

What he was counting on was the carefully hidden wireless relay and the concealed hard drive array it fed. They were in the center of a large and heavily vegetated pond, so even if his attackers lit the cabin and its surrounding forest on fire to destroy evidence, it would record until the cameras all melted into nothingness. The weatherproof box could survive for decades. There was evidence against the corrupt officials who started all this hidden elsewhere.

The truth would come out.

 

* * *

 

Once everyone had left, the killer continued his slow advance. There was no way to take Hardie down inside the cabin short of an RPG or similar weapons; the clearing around the cabin was laced with alarms, cameras, and motion sensors. Hardie was armed to the teeth and could easily take out any intruder before the unfortunate soul made it to his front door.

One thing he could do was disconnect the satellite internet, a dish hidden in a tangle of vines. It was responsible for live-streaming the cameras that had tripped up the ATF raid. With the live feed down, he’d be able to make his move without being broadcast on YouTube, and then he could eliminate the recordings once his target was dead.

When Hardie exited the cabin, he did so with a trained dog at his side and a shotgun in his hand. The dog sniffed the blackberry-bush parameter like a security guard on patrol, and only then did Hardie emerge.

Timing was critical.

After 45 minutes, the cabin’s back door creaked open and the dog bounded out. The dog alerted first on a scent on the opposite side of the yard, racing towards it and sniffing, letting out a small woof.  
The dog dismissed it and ran along the line of bushes, alerting on a rabbit carcase the killer had hung there while the group was in the cabin. The dog alerted, in predator mode with no barking. After wagging his tail at it for a minute, he raced on and picked up the scent of an old sock the killer had hidden.

Over the course of three weeks, the killer had slowly accustomed the dog to his scent with such objects. It was no longer of much note.

When the dog caught the killer’s live scent, he stopped and alerted with a low growl, but soon raced on to check out the smell of a dead fish the killer had concealed. Before long, the dog was relaxed and Hardie emerged.

The killer tightened a gloved hand on the lethal weapon, and eased into position, watching the dog.

Then with one smooth movement, he clipped a key blackberry branch and yanked it away with one hand, and took aim with the other.

The bullet burst through the air and embedded itself in Hardie’s stomach. He gasped and clutched his stomach as he fell, writhing. The dog raced to his side, and the killer dispatched it with one bullet.

Ripping free of the blackberry canes, the killer ran into the clearing where Hardie was clutching feebly at his shotgun. It took three paces to reach him, and three seconds for the killer to aim the handgun at his knee and pull the trigger.

“Where did you hide the evidence, you little fucker?”

Hardie was wiggling like a worm on a hook, howling. The killer knew he didn’t have long; he needed to dispatch Hardie Baker and destroy all the recording equipment in the cabin before anyone could respond to reports of gunshots. The area was remote enough that they might never be reported, and it could be days before the body was found. But he wasn’t about to chance it.

“You have evidence against a friend of mine,” said the killer, his voice cool and calm. “After you die, I’m going to find it. What I’m doing to you right now? I’ll do to everyone you’ve associated with in the past three months until I find and destroy it. You can rat out one of your friends right now and die fast, or let me play with you until your heart gives out and doom everyone you’ve even liked to the same fate.”

Hardie’s head fell back onto the pine-needle covered earth in defeat, and he stilled. “Lattimer,” he said in a tired croak.

With a crack that echoed off the nearby hills, Hardie Baker died.

 

* * *

 

Watching in shock as his murder was committed for him, the second man concealed in the maze of blackberries started to run through the possible ramifications. 


	3. Chapter 3

Marshal scanned the packed emergency room of the Gwinnett Medical Center and spotted his boss, Supervisory Special Agent Angela Hacker. A 16-year veteran of the FBI, she was a coolheaded force of nature with a kind heart and a soft spot for Marshal.

“The wife refuses to speak to us,” said Hacker. “The son is four, and the daughter’s still in surgery. The husband, Frank Lattimer, is en route to jail.”

“How is he?” asked Marshal.

“How would any of us be if ATF agents broke down our door in the middle of the night, killed our dog, injured our wife and children, shot us, and broke our leg with a baton?” asked Hacker with a raised eyebrow,

“I’d be peachy,” said Marshal.

“Yeah - well, the poor guy came out of surgery, recovery, and now he’s on his way to jail with his leg in a cast and his arm in a sling. He’s -” a waver formed in Hacker’s professional, detached expression, and she glanced around to see if anyone else was in hearing range.

“He begged the nurses not to let them take him, Marshal,” said Hacker. “The man just got out of surgery, and he feels like he’s being dragged off by the SS. The nurse told him to man up and deal with it. It was awful.”

“So - they’re charging him with assaulting an agent, just because he attacked the agent slamming his little boy into a wall? That’s almost as brutal as the raid itself,” said Marshal.

“Yeah. And here’s the thing. I can’t blame the guy, but he completely refuses to talk to us, even about what the raid team did. Since our team gets pulled in three days, we have about a day to throw together a case against the men who did this in order to get it cued up for prosecution.”

“So unless he cooperates, pretty much now, we don’t get a chance to go after them?”

“Exactly,” said Hacker. “Marshal, how do you feel about doing your first solo interview?”

Marshal perked up. Being a rookie FBI agent didn’t allow for doing much of anything without supervision, let alone interviewing a critical witness. “Great? Why?”

Hacker studied him, a fond little smile settling on her face. “He’s not talking because he’s deeply hurt and terrified. That empathetic streak everyone makes fun of in you? That’s why. I want you to go in alone, and be your non-threatening little sweetheart self without anyone watching.”

Marshal’s cheeks burned. “I wanted to hear something along the lines of, ‘because of your exceptional talent and competence.’”

“Get him to cooperate, get a statement from him, and not only will I call you talented and competent, we’ll be able to arrest an evil asshole and make it stick.” Hacker stared him down. “This guy’s little girl is still in surgery, Tate. I’m basically putting the fate of justice for this whole family in your inexperienced hands, so don’t screw it up.”

 

* * *

 

Terror. Powerless. Violated. Broken. Prisoner.

All words Kevin Lattimer was used to hearing without understanding. Until now. Now, he understood each and every one to a devastating degree.

His mind wasn’t letting him steer any more. Things he felt before, like safe and secure, were gone in a shivering morass of cold and dread and pain and shaking and humiliation and overwhelming grief.

Kevin stared at painted cinderblock walls, a metal door, and a bolted-down steel table with hasps to chain people to, and struggled not to scream, cry, and throw up in one great explosion of every horrible emotion known to man.

_You’re going to be interrogated by the FBI now._

Kevin’s hands shook. His heart pounded wildly, and every muscle in his body tensed. His left arm throbbed, sending waves of shiver-inducing heat through his upper body. He touched the bandages and the sling, tracing his fingers over the spot where a 9mm bullet had penetrated his arm and mushroomed, tearing a jagged, spinning, burning-hot path through flesh and muscle before the area was cut open by surgeons and a bloody piece of fragmented copper pulled out.

He finally braved looking at the cast on his leg. It was a hard and bulky plastic boot, supporting the bone that had cracked when a baton smashed into it, wielded with the full force of an adult man built like a pro wrestler.

Kevin squeezed his eyes shut and made himself focus on the pain. Crawling up his leg like a toothache, pulsing, twisting - but even that couldn’t distract him from the sounds and images in his head. The pop-pop of gunshots. The agonized yelp Chinook made in the last seconds of his life as another 9mm bullet shattered his ribcage and shredded his heart. His daughter screaming. His son dashed against the wall, sliding down, limp, unmoving in a heap. The smell of gunpowder and blood.

Waking from surgery in handcuffs, pleading with the nurses when he learned he was considered stable and was going to be taken to jail now. Crying, sobbing, in terror in front of strangers. Standing, shaking, naked in a jail intake room while other strangers in uniform examined his sling, cast, and body for “contraband.”

The pain was what gave him few, blessed flashes of anger and defiance. Precious moments of strength when he’d managed to hold his head high and tell a barrage of faces holding badges to go fuck themselves before they even dreamed of him cooperating with so much as a “yes” or “no” answer to their questions.

They hadn’t been awful to him. Getting searched and fingerprinted and all that on the way in was a blur, but that blur held patient orders and understanding words along with the stark terror and pure humiliation of standing naked in a cast and sling in front of uniformed strangers.

The pain was also crippling him, weakening him, leaving him raw and unable to cope with the thought of an aggressive inmate, a rough guard, or even stepping wrong and banging into a cement wall. He’d whimpered like a broken animal when a jail guard had helped him lower himself into this chair. Did he want to face living through this?

* * *

 

 

Marshal surveyed the long, sterile corridors and intimidating steel doors of the jail, and hoped it looked like an alert threat assessment rather than rookie staring. A shiver of frisson ran down his spine. He was here because society trusted him, and his lead agent trusted him, to be competent.

After all the mocking he’d taken about being too empathetic and idealistic, it was hard not to be just a little satisfied about those being the primary reasons he’d been chosen to do this.

“No company this evening?” asked the lumbering sheriff’s deputy escorting him to an interview room.

Marshal shook his head. “My SA tried talking to Lattimer at the hospital, and he didn’t want anything to do with her. She’s hoping maybe one rookie’ll seem less intimidating.”

“He’s compliant,” said the deputy, his hand lingering on the interrogation room door handle as he stood between it and Marshal. “But he’s mainly terrified, and heartbroken, and just plain hurting.”

Marshal peered through a reinforced glass window, the glass itself latticed with thin wire bars. The sight made his heart hurt. Kevin Lattimer might be wearing stormy dark blue-green jail inmate’s scrubs, but he was first and foremost the victim of a brutal crime. Injured, traumatized, fundamentally innocent, and for the first time in his life, locked in a jail cell. His criminal record consisted of a single traffic citation.

He was everything Marshal’s mind was wired to protect, and SSA Hacker was betting the investigation on the hope that Lattimer would see that in him.

His subject was a solid, plain-looking man with short dark hair, currently a complete mess, and rich blue eyes. Kevin Lattimer’s face was broad and open; sort of rounded, but with a strong jawline. The fear and reserve on it looked foreign to him. He had a dark five-o-clock shadow; his day had begun before dawn with the ATF breaking down his door, and it was now evening.

“Expects the worst outta all of us, not that I blame him.”

“I’m here to help,” said Marshal quietly, giving the deputy an appreciative glance.

The deputy nodded and muscled open the tan-painted steel door. Marshal strolled in, trying to look like a seasoned law enforcement pro and not someone who still felt like a pretender calling himself an FBI agent.

The heavy door closed behind him with a crashing metal-on-metal slam that made the tan cinderblock walls of the cramped room shudder. The absence of any soft surface to absorb sound rendered every noise harsh and threatening.

Kevin Lattimer winced down to his very toes, tucking his feet under the chair. His gaze flashed side to side and up, like even climbing the walls wasn’t off the table as an escape option. Marshal’s gut tightened. The jail didn’t bother him, but hearing that and imagining its impact on a vulnerable person did.

If the shiny metal table hadn’t already been between them, Marshal was pretty sure Lattimer would’ve thrown himself behind it. He stared at Marshal with agonized blue eyes, shrinking down in an instinctive attempt to hide.

“It’s okay,” said Marshal in a gentle voice, not advancing.

In a box maybe fifteen feet across, it made little practical difference but a marked psychological one. Where Marshal had seen fresh paint and a protective deputy, Lattimer saw a lonely concrete hell and an FBI agent who could inflict untold horrors upon him.

To Marshal, this room was reassuring, because it spoke of a humane, well-run facility. Glossy tan paint warmed the walls. The stainless steel table and chairs were harsh but practical, new and clean. A CCTV camera blinked up in one corner. To Lattimer….

* * *

 

 

This young FBI agent had a trim, agile build, coffee brown hair, and wore jeans and cowboy boots with a white shirt, navy tie, and open black sport coat. A holster was strapped to the outside of his upper right thigh with two broad black nylon belts, and another that hooked into his belt. An FBI badge was clipped to his belt, and he managed to look both relaxed and official. Kind of a nice face, really. It was tempting to think -

_I attacked a federal agent. They just locked me alone in a room with an FBI agent. He’s going to beat the absolute shit out of me, and I can’t take it and just shoot me just shoot me -_

“I’m not going to shoot you,” said the agent. His voice was kind, if mildly amused.

Kevin startled, realizing with a cold shudder that he’d been thinking out loud. The startle jolted recently patched-together injuries, and he yelped. His face went hot and he cowered in shame, almost losing control of his bladder when the agent advanced.

“You okay?” The agent looked concerned about Kevin’s cry of pain, his forehead crinkling in a pleasant frown.

“Get away from me,” said Kevin. He tried to sound tough and failed completely.

None the less, the agent stopped. “I can’t do that right now.”

“I didn’t attack -- plea--” Lattimer’s words choked off in terror as Tate advanced.

The agent bit his lip, and met Kevin’s eyes. There was empathy in his gaze that soothed some of the twisting pain in Kevin’s racing heart instantly. The nightmares come to life didn’t have eyes like that. They had hot, excited gazes that looked at him like he was prey, not human.

“It’s okay,” said the agent in a sincerely caring voice.

Kevin drew a deep breath. The air was stale, as though it too was a prisoner in this windowless room with its bright LED lighting. He wanted the comfort this pleasant-looking young man was offering, and that terrified him, because that wasn’t how this story went.

“I’m not here to hurt you, trust me on that,” said the agent kindly.

Kevin forced himself to raise his head from where he’d unconsciously slumped it to avoid having to see the blows coming.

“I’m FBI Special Agent Marshal Tate, with the Bureau’s Civil Rights Unit. I’d like to talk about what the ATF did to you and your family.”

Marshal. The name suited the guy, somehow. He had sort of an old-West wholesome, laid-back feel to him.

* * *

 

 

Federal enforcement had done this, and that twisted at Marshal. It wasn’t his guilt to carry, or even his agency’s, but it had an impact he couldn’t deny.

_You’re not cut out for this._

The unwanted thought invaded Marshal’s mind like a shard of broken glass. _Too soft. Needs 30ccs of reality, stat. Needs to be a shrink, not a law enforcement officer. What’s he gonna do when shit goes down, start crying at the sight of blood?_ Marshal heard the comments around the FBI office and even on his own team.

Despite - or maybe to spite - his critics, he’d earned sizzling scores at Quantico. SSA Hacker now thought his empathy and ability to connect made him their single best chance at getting Lattimer to talk.

Screw seasoned law enforcement pro.

Marshal wasn’t about to deny this young father one shred of the compassion, hurt, and horror he felt right now. Only a law enforcement officer like stood a chance at addressing the damage done by monsters with badges.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said Marshal. “I’d never -” his voice broke. “I’d never, ever hurt a helpless person. That’s not how most of us operate. That’s not how the FBI operates.”

The emotion in Marshal’s voice finally reached through Lattimer’s armor, and he braved meeting Marshal’s eyes for a split second. His eyes were dark blue, his face intelligent and sensitive.

“It’s okay,” reassured Marshal. “You’re safe. I know this place is scary, but they care about you, and so do I.” All pretense of professional reserve was gone, and he didn’t miss it.

“Sorry.” Lattimer drew in an uneven breath and released it.

Marshal took a single step forward. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “Can I come sit with you? We don’t have to talk.”

Lattimer gave him a tiny nod, and Marshal sat down in his own rigid steel chair across the metal table from Lattimer. He grimaced. If it was uncomfortable for him, it had to be hell on the badly injured Lattimer.

“Stainless steel appliances are never gonna look fashionable to me again,” said Marshal, glancing at the thick exposed bolts that fastened the table to the cement floor, and the metal ring that Lattimer fortunately wasn’t handcuffed to.

That got a slight humorous twitch of the mouth. “Didn’t know the county jail kept up with interior design trends,” said Lattimer. “Maybe this is more of a high-end property than I thought.”

Marshal reached out as if to shake hands. Lattimer extended the arm that wasn’t in a sling, a socially ingrained reflex.

Marshal caught his fingers instead and held his hand in simple human empathy and reassurance. After a minute, Lattimer’s breathing steadied, and he gave Marshal’s hand a timid squeeze in return.

“I need to read you your rights, now,” said Marshal. “Can you handle that?”

Lattimer nodded, and Marshal took a card out of his wallet and read from it, obtaining Lattimer’s verbal understanding of each point.

“Do you consent to being questioned without your lawyer present?” asked Marshal when he finished.

Lattimer looked at him flatly, anger replacing fear in his eyes. “I’m not talking to you.”

Marshal tucked the cheat card back into his pocket. “That’s your right,” he said. “Here’s how it works. I’m allowed to question you, and you’re allowed to not answer. If you tell me you want a lawyer present during questioning, I have to leave. I don’t get to explain how your cooperation tonight is going to be vital to prosecuting the people who attacked you. I don’t get to show you I care, and truly want to help you.”

Lattimer sighed. “I want you to stick around long enough for me to explain that no law enforcement official gets any aid from me, ever again in my lifetime, and the many, many positions in which you can go fuck yourself.”

“You explain your positions, I’ll explain mine. Deal?” asked Marshal.

“I’d like to see you try it in reverse cowgirl,” snapped Lattimer. There was cold anger in his expression, but tellingly, his fingers were still holding firm to Marshal’s hand.

Marshal smiled. “Funny you should mention cowgirls. I grew up in Oregon’s cowboy country. My dad was a vet, and I rode on the volunteer sheriff’s posse as a teenager. One day, we rode in to evac a homesteading cult ahead of a forest fire. Long story short, I found a child porn production. The case was botched by local authorities, and I decided to be an FBI agent when I grew up.”

“Okay, regular cowgirl,” muttered Lattimer, glaring and trying to hide the growing interest on his face.

“It’s really, really hard to get into the FBI,” said Marshal. “I went to UVA for a psychology degree, then entered UVA law school where I studied civil rights. I got my JD, passed the bar, then practiced law at Human Rights Watch for two years. Now, I’m a rookie on a Civil Rights Unit. I’ve been through educational hell to be sitting here trying to make a case against the sorry excuses for federal agents who attacked you.”

"Wait, what?" Lattimer blinked, staring at him. "You're a frikkin civil rights lawyer from a top-fourteen law school? Working as an _FBI agent?_ "

"I did all that just to _qualify_ to be an FBI agent," said Marshal. "I am not kidding around when I say I'm here to help. You think I left Human Rights Watch to come beat up crime victims in a Georgia jail?"

Something softened in Lattimer’s eyes. “Have you - heard if my daughter came through surgery okay?”

Marshal stiffened. This poor guy didn’t even know if his daughter survived surgery? “I have no idea. I’ll call and find out, though.”

Several phone calls later, he covered the phone with his hand and spoke to Lattimer. “She’s fine, she’s awake and doing well. Do you want to talk to her?”

Lattimer’s eyes flooded with tears, and he took the phone from Marshal. “Hi, sweetie. Yes, it’s dad. Are you feeling okay?”

Silence, and Lattimer started smiling as he listened.

When Lattimer finally hung up and handed the phone back to Marshal, there was an edge of strength in his expression. He heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Agent -”

“Just call me Marshal.”

“Marshal - thank you. Thank you. You have no idea what a relief....”

Marshal frowned. “The staff here didn’t let you call?”

As far as he knew, the jail had proven to be a safe haven. They were bending over backwards to show kindness and support to these guys.

Lattimer gave him a puzzled look. “I - didn’t ask. It’s jail, why - would they have let me?”

“Yes.” said Marshal. “Yes, they’d let you _find out if your daughter was alive_.”

Lattimer lowered his head and closed his eyes. “I was just shot and had my leg broken by ATF agents who broke into my house in the middle of the night. Forgive me if I - see a uniform and expect to be - not helped.”

“Consider yourself so forgiven,” said Marshal with a wry half-smile.

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Lattimer. “I don’t know what they were doing in my house. I don’t own a gun, I wasn’t even paying attention to this whole Second Amendment mess.”

This was where Marshal was supposed to take control of the interview, making sure he was the one asking the questions. But that presupposed that the guy you were interviewing wasn’t in complete terror. Marshal had a feeling Lattimer needed to hear a gentle voice explaining how it came to be his world had imploded, not be hit with questions.

“Okay,” said Marshal. “The Gwinnett County sheriff, Harvey Gillis, won’t enforce the new federal gun laws because he considers them unconstitutional. ATF came in to crack down, and for reasons we can only guess, they’re doing it with -- pretty sickening brutality. Sheriff Gillis runs this jail, and he started noticing the suspects the ATF was booking were more like violent crime victims.”

“Sus - suspects - like me?” asked Lattimer.

“Exactly,” said Marshal. “He discovered that the ATF was violating constitutional rights on a massive scale, contacted the FBI, and here I am in the twilight zone, arresting ATF agents.”

“But I don’t own a gun.” Lattimer was starting to sound calmer, and he was still unconsciously clutching Marshal’s hand. Considerable progress from cringing away in the expectation that Marshal was here to beat the hell out of him. “I don’t even know what the laws are.”

“Mandated licensing for gun owners, permits for purchase of ammo, that sort of thing,” said Marshal. “The licenses aren’t easy to get. This is Georgia, one of the most pro-gun states in the country, so it was never going to go over well.”

“I don’t own a gun,” repeated Lattimer, starting to sound scared again. The sudden outbreak of slamming metal cell doors outside the interview room didn’t help matters.

Marshal shivered. “This could have happened to anyone. You were in no way complicit in what happened. Allegedly, a guy walking his dog saw you carrying crates of ammunition into your house before dawn.”

Lattimer stared at him, dumbfounded. “What -- no, I --”

Marshal squeezed his hand to stop his words. “They had no warrant to raid your house. Yes, that’s a blatant violation of your civil liberties, and illegal. They found no weapons, ammunition, or evidence against you.”

“We were attacked -- in our home --” Lattimer faltered.

Marshal interrupted with another gentle squeeze, and rubbed the back of Lattimer’s hand with his thumb. It was time to take control of the interview. “I need you to tell me about it, Kevin. I’m going to ask questions that’ll hurt, and I’m sorry. We’re building a criminal case against ATF Agent Jeffery Haynes, the guy who led the raid on your home.”

Lattimer gulped. “Are you building a case against me?”

“No,” said Marshal. “What do you do for a living, Kevin?”

“I’m a power transmission engineer.”

Marshal looked him over, interested. Lattimer looked more like…. A stalwart lab tech. Or perhaps a mid-level financial consultant who’d seen some shit in Afghanistan and whose main hobby was woodworking.

“What does that mean you do, exactly?”

“I plan additions, re-routes, and repairs to the power delivery infrastructure,” said Lattimer. “If they put in a new building downtown, I figure out what the power requirements are, how to supply them, and how to tie it all in to the existing system. How exactly does that have anything to do with my family being attacked by uniformed thugs?”

“I’m trying to learn something about you, and set you at ease with easy questions,” said Marshal just as bluntly. “Unless you’d rather I jump right into the gory details of the most traumatic event you’ve ever experienced.”

Lattimer sighed. “I’m - there’s no easing me into it. I’m in it.”

“Okay,” said Marshal in a gentle voice. “Tears are allowed. Don’t try to make an impression on me, just let me drag you through this until we get to the end. I understand you were all asleep when the ATF raided your house?”

Lattimer nodded, looked like that movement hurt, and sat still.

“You, your wife, your son and daughter, right?” asked Marshal.

“You know this,” said Lattimer. “Why ask me unless you’re trying to get me to confess to something?”

“Good investigation involves cross-checking everything,” said Marshal. “If the ATF had just done that, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.” Lattimer was silent for a minute, looking at Marshal. “Can I see your badge?”

Marshal pulled it out and flipped open the black wallet-like case to reveal his FBI photo ID and his shiny metal badge. Lattimer took it and studied it for a while, looking back and forth between the ID and Marshal. He ran his finger across the polished, bumpy surface of the badge.

“I think I needed to see ....some concrete way you’re different,” said Lattimer. He glanced up. “You look kind.”

“Thanks,” said Marshal with a tiny smile. “Not everyone considers that an asset.”

“It’s hard for me to imagine you arresting and handcuffing someone, or shooting or hitting them. But you would,” said Lattimer. He unconsciously raised his free hand to the sling, and touched the bandage on his upper arm where he’d been shot. “That scares me.”

“So would you,” said Marshal. “I wouldn’t do any of those things without cause, I promise. But tell me you wouldn’t arrest the ATF agents who attacked you, if you had that authority. Tell me you wouldn’t fight back if they resisted or pulled a gun on you.”

Lattimer studied the badge. “I attacked a Federal agent. Guess that answers the question.”

“What woke you up?” asked Marshal.

Tears filled Lattimer’s eyes. “A gunshot. They -- I guess they broke the door down. Chinook, our husky, must have -- the gunshot was them killing him.”

Lattimer turned away, pale. “Wasn’t just a dog. I can - I can’t do this. Sorry.”

Marshal dragged his chair over to Lattimer’s side of the table. He sat down beside the guy, put one hand on Lattimer’s shoulder, and resumed his grip on Lattimer’s hand with the other.

“This okay?” he asked.

Lattimer nodded.

“Is it welcome? Or would you rather I go away?” asked Marshal.

“Don’t let go,” whispered Lattimer, lowering his head.

“I know. He was precious, an irreplaceable soul, and probably died defending his family,” said Marshal. “I get it. You’re in excruciating grief and pain right now, and I’m sitting here demanding you rip open the wounds. Being a crime victim sucks utterly and horribly on all levels, including this one. I’m asking you to let me hurt you. I’m asking you to endure it and cooperate with it. When it’s over, I’ll hold you while you cry. I’ll walk you onto the jail floor and stand by your side, and I won’t leave until you’re okay.”

* * *

 

Kevin tried to see through the tears filling his eyes, but the FBI agent was just a blur. This was pain on so many levels, he didn’t know how to handle it. “I’m in hell,” he whispered.

“You have no idea how badly I want to fly in on wings of an avenging angel and raise you up out of it,” said the agent, a surprising ferocity in his voice.

“I’ll never see you again, will I?” asked Kevin. “I talk, you write a report, maybe arrest a guy, the courts do their thing - I’m a moving part, not a friend you care about.”

“I doubt you’ll want to see me again,” said Marshal. “Victim interviews right after the crime like this can be excruciating. But if you do - I’m just a guy. I like having friends.”

“I guess - I feel like this might be the last time someone’s ever kind to me,” admitted Kevin. “What if I go to prison for tackling that agent?”

“It’s incredibly unlikely you’ll go to prison,” said the agent. “If you do, well, it won’t be for long. And people survive the experience just fine, all the time. I promise you, this is not the last time someone will be kind. You need a friend, I’ll be your friend.”

Kevin’s last reserve broke. “I have - I have a hidden camera system in my house. It probably recorded the whole thing. You - have my permission to enter my house and get the SD card. I’ll write down my username and password for you so you can access the app.”

* * *

 

 

  
Marshal's breath caught. Being willing to emotionally connect had just won him not only the interview, but virtually unimpeachable evidence against the ATF team.

It'd also won him a brand-new complication. There was something about Lattimer that he sincerely liked; the offer of friendship had not been a calculated or insincere one on his part. Nonetheless, there were good reasons that law enforcement officers weren't generally encouraged to develop friendships with suspects or witnesses in a case. But they all knew it happened sometimes.

He'd have to speak to Angela Hacker, his supervisor. As long as the whole thing was documented from the beginning, he couldn't very well be accused of improper behavior.

"Thank you, Kevin," said Marshal. "That's huge. That's incredible evidence against Haynes and his whole team."

"It's also evidence against me, isn't it?"

"I can't give you legal advice," said Marshal. "But because of the high profile of these cases, the ACLU is providing some excellent defense attorneys for people in your position. It's likely your attorney will use the recording to make a successful case of legitimate self-defense. The fact that you willingly provided it to the FBI should act in your favor as well."

For the first time, an expression of hope crossed Kevin Lattimer's face. He was an endearing man; he was an open book, and Marshal was willing to bet Kevin shared some of his own determined idealism.

"I hate to do this to you, but I need to get your verbal recounting of events anyway."

Lattimer nodded, giving Marshal a brave and sincere attempt at a smile.

“You heard the sounds of the agents entering your house,” said Marshal. “What happened next?”

“We all came running out of our bedrooms,” said Lattimer. “We didn’t know -- they -- these men in black were charging through our house. I thought it was a home invasion at first. The kids were downstairs. My daughter - she’s eight - tackled the guys who hurt her dog. One of the agents just -- slammed her to the floor and he was jerking her arm and she was screaming -- he broke her shoulder and dislocated her arm.”

Lattimer was trembling, and Marshal rubbed his shoulder gently, trying to hold him in a kinder present.

“Can you describe that agent?” asked Marshal.

Lattimer nodded. “He was huge, like pro wrestler huge. Shaved head, kinda shaped like an egg. I heard one of the others call him Hines, or something like that? He was in charge.”

“Haynes?” suggested Marshal.

“Yeah. That was it. My boy -- he’s four -- came kinda stumbling out all sleep and scared, and while I’m running downstairs this main guy, Haynes, just smashed him against the wall like he was a sack of potatoes and he fell down, and the agent did it again, and my son didn’t move after that. I -- I was afraid -- he was dead.”

“Where were you at that point?” asked Marshal.

“I got to the bottom of the stairs, and I threw myself at that guy - Haynes - and one of the agents shot me in the arm. I fell down, I remember screaming, and I was holding my arm thinking they shot it off. At that point I’m so -- furious and worried sick -- I was cursing the guy out, I think, but -- I didn’t know being shot could hurt that bad, and I was crying -- my dog ....”

“Did you make any aggressive physical moves after you were shot?” asked Marshal.

Lattimer shook his head. “It’s not -- manly -- to admit, but I was -- down for good.”

“What happened next?” asked Marshal.

“Haynes whirls around on me and he had a nightstick and he hit me on the shin with it so hard I could hear the crack. I couldn’t stop screaming, and I guess that pissed him off because he puts the barrel of his rifle right in my face. I remember looking up and I see this other guy in uniform and have that little moment of thank God, the cavalry’s here. Then I see the rifle aimed at my head, and he wants - to pull the trigger. Now I....” his voice trailed off, the thought as lost as he was.

“And then?”

Lattimer shuddered with his whole body. “There’s this big black dude behind him, and Haynes yelled at him to go away. Then - he - Haynes - grabs my wrist -- the arm that’d been shot, and jerks, and somehow yanks me onto my side. Then he kicks me in the back, on my shoulder, and that puts me on my stomach. I -- remember him cuffing me, and I was screaming, because my arm -- Haynes started yelling, ‘Where is it?’ and just whaling on the cuffs.”

“Do you know what he was referring to?” asked Marshal.

“No,” said Lattimer, tears streaming down his face. “It was torture. He was torturing me, I was screaming, and I have no idea why. I couldn’t stop him. He just kept yelling at me to tell him where it was.”

Marshal took his free hand and used it to gently trace either side of the ugly red line encircling Lattimer’s wrist, trying to soothe with kindness what had been inflamed by cruelty. “Then?”

“The big black guy came back, and yelled at him to stop. I think - I think he was as confused as I was. He asked Haynes what the hell he was talking about, and Haynes said, ‘The guns, I want him to tell me where the guns are,’ but that wasn’t what he’d been asking me.”

“Where was your wife?”

“Halfway down the stairs -- then I heard her screaming at Haynes and out of the side of my vision I see two guys throw her on the ground and cuff her. She -- she’s all right, just bruised, but they knocked out my son and he’s still in the hospital, my daughter -- they told me she might not get back full use of her arm.”

“What happened next?” asked Marshal.

“They started searching the house, and yelled at us a lot. They must have called an ambulance, because paramedics showed up and said we had to be taken to the hospital. The Haynes guy wanted to drive me, but they insisted I was shot and bleeding and had to go in an ambulance. He wouldn’t uncuff me, and the paramedics said he had to, and they finally threw me on a stretcher and strapped me down and handcuffed me to it like I was some danger, and I passed out.”

“Where did you wake up?”

“In the hospital, coming out of surgery. There was police and FBI there, and they said I was going to jail for assaulting a federal agent and resisting arrest. I know that means - I’m probably getting beat the hell up at some point for hurting a cop and-”

“You won’t be,” said Marshal firmly. “You’ll be treated very well here, I promise.”

Lattimer’s eyes were pleading, open wide in terror. Amid the empathy, something clicked in Marshal’s mind. As much as Lattimer feared the fact that Marshal was an authority figure, right now he also desperately needed Marshal to be one.

Marshal wrapped his arm around Lattimer’s back and gripped tightly, supporting him.

“Come on,” said Marshal firmly. “We’re walking out onto the jail floor together, and you’re gonna do it as the proud badass who defended his family against armed men out of a dead sleep in the middle of the night. You did that, you can face minimum security in a modern jail.”

Lattimer nodded, and limped forward, accepting Marshal’s support.

“Head up,” ordered Marshal, feeling him start to shake. “Chin up. You can shake and cry, but you do it with your chin up and you feel damn proud of yourself for being able to do this.”

The same deputy who’d led Marshal into the interview room escorted them down a short, tan hallway and through several steel doors.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was quiet except for a television tuned to a local news station. Marshal eased Lattimer down onto a tan plastic couch facing the TV and gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder as the injured man glanced around nervously. There was a shred of curiosity in his expression too; jail was a strange place for a law-abiding civilian to find himself.

Tables with game boards printed on them dotted the main floor, and a couple of inmates were playing checkers. Marshal did a mental run-down; he wasn’t armed with anything but handcuffs; nobody was allowed to bring guns into the jail. His badge wasn’t visible, but wearing a jacket and tie on the jail floor, it was pretty obvious he was law enforcement.

Marshal and Lattimer were being watched inconspicuously from all corners. Most inmates slept or read on beds in open bays around the walls. There were no cells in this two-level wing of the jail, which held cooperative and non-violent offenders. That didn’t mean he could let his guard down, but the mood was quiet and non-predatory.

Marshal sat beside Lattimer, nails biting into the palms of his clenched hands. A Federal agent had done this. As wrenching as it was to talk to any victim of violent crime, the attacker being law enforcement made the guilt and horror _his_. This hadn’t been done by some evil other. It had been done by evil within his own pack, his own tribe.

“What happens next?” asked Lattimer. His voice shook.

Marshal leaned back. “We review that tape, get warrants, probably arrest Haynes in the morning.”

Lattimer relaxed. For a moment. “Wait - is he -”

Lattimer froze and his eyes flashed around looking for an escape. “Is he coming here? With me?”

His eyes fell, and he seemed to answer his own question. In what his world had just become, of course he’d be thrown in jail with his own attacker.

Marshal shook his head. He kept his voice quiet, to avoid disturbing the other inmates and be gentle on Lattimer’s raw nerves. “He’ll be here, but you won’t see each other. They’re housing these guys in the high security wing. It has closed cells, and there’s a dozen locked doors between you and them.”

A corrections deputy came over and Lattimer cringed, shrinking towards Marshal’s side and tucking his uninjured leg back. He was willing to trust, trying to trust, but the trauma of the raid wasn’t going away easily.

“I’m Deputy Anderson.” He was a big black guy, tall, broad, easily strong enough to send either Marshal or Kevin flying across the room. But he came across as someone who used his size to be at ease in the environment, not a bully. His expression was concerned and reassuring.

Marshal stuck his hand out. “Marshal Tate.”

The deputy shook it and cocked his head to the side. “Wait - you’re FBI and a US Marshal? You some kind of supercop?”

“Far from it,” said Marshal. “I’m a very junior FBI agent. Marshal’s my first name.”

“Oh.” The deputy looked down at his hands.

“Don’t worry, you’re not the first person I’ve royally confused,” said Marshal.

“Pain meds and antibiotics,” Anderson said, handing Lattimer a small paper cup with pills, and a bottle of water.

Lattimer swallowed them. “Thanks,” he said, following it with a hesitant and cowed, “Sir.” He still wanted to run, and huddled closer against Marshal’s side instead.

Deputy Anderson nodded and held up an orange prescription bottle. “Your doc talk to you about taking these sedatives? Now’d be the time for it.”

Lattimer stared at the floor. “Idea of being even more incapacitated is kinda scary.”

Anderson smiled. “This isn’t Shawshank, kid. You’re injured, and in jail for the first time in your life. No way you spend the night anything other than awake and miserable without these. Take my advice, doc gave ‘em to you for a reason.”

Lattimer looked at Marshal for confirmation.

Marshal nodded. “This is a good facility, and a humane one. Let them be humane.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Lattimer nodded. The deputy handed him the medication, checked that he’d swallowed it, then sat down on another of the sectional couches surrounding the TV.

“You’re safe here, you know,” he said in a far more gentle voice than one would expect from a guard in a jail. “We work for Sheriff Gillis, not the ATF. Sheriff Gillis is very much on you guys’ side. ”

Lattimer relaxed, his breath coming more easily. He gave the guard a grateful glance. “Thanks.”

“The inmates are on your side too,” said the deputy. “There is nobody in this wing with the slightest inclination to hurt you.”

“I was attacked in the middle of the night in my own house by federal agents,” said Lattimer. “How do I make myself feel safe in _jail_?”

“Absolute safety doesn’t exist,” said Marshal. “And I don’t imagine the trauma’s going away for you any time soon. But maybe you can take comfort in the fact that we all want you to feel safe, and want to protect you.”

“Thanks,” said Lattimer again, looking away.

“You’ll be arraigned on the assault charge tomorrow, and get out on bail tomorrow or the next day,” said Marshal. “In the meantime, try to rest. You’ll be okay here. Let them care for you.”

Lattimer’s head drooped, and he looked like he wanted to be shot. “Assaulting a Federal agent? Bail? How the hell did those things turn into part of my life?”

A hard-looking, lanky black guy in his twenties approached with a soft-looking dog on a leash, its nails clicking on the sealed concrete floor.

Marshal guessed half golden retriever, half Australian shepherd for the dog, maybe chop shop mechanic for the guy. He had calloused hands and a pockmarked face that just looked like it would be at home with grease stains.

The dog made a beeline for Lattimer, but something made him stop in front of Marshal. It was almost as though he recognized Marshal was in charge, and was waiting for permission.

“He’s in training as a therapy dog,” said the handler, ignoring everyone but Lattimer.

“We have a program here,” explained Deputy Anderson. “Inmates train shelter dogs. This is Buddy.”

“I’m Harry Adkins,” said the inmate. He sat down and stared at the TV, pretending Marshal and the deputy didn’t exist. Or given his expression, possibly that they were malignant tumors which spread through eye contact.

Marshal reached out and a silky tan head pushed against his hand for a scratch. He patted the seat and the dog hopped up and lay down in his lap.

“Thanks - for listening,” said Lattimer.

Buddy wiggled forward and nuzzled Marshal with a damp nose. Marshal scratched him between two floppy ears.

“I can imagine, and it -” Marshal stopped, then decided to forge ahead with unguarded honesty. “I love the FBI, and law enforcement. So it’s - this is like watching a member of my family beat someone I care about and feel intensely protective of.”

Buddy worked his way across Marshal’s lap and pressed his head against Lattimer’s chest, tail wagging.

Lattimer lowered his head, half relief, half surrender, barely noticing the dog. “You know, when I got here out of the hospital, I was so scared I was trembling - getting checked into jail with a broken leg and a bullet through my arm felt like being dropped off in hell. And oh, by the way, you’re about to be interrogated by the FBI. But they’ve - the guards have been so nice, and the other prisoners, and you....”

Marshal shivered. God, that’d be horrifying. With no way to know that the authorities he was being handed over to were one bit safer than the ones who’d just storm-troopered you and your family? He’d have been clinging to the hospital bed and pleading with the doctors not to do this to him.

Buddy reached his target. He nuzzled Lattimer and tried to lick him under the chin.

“I’m sorry,” said Marshal. “On behalf of every decent guy with a badge, I’m so sorry. I promise you we care.”

Buddy’s handler shot Marshal a sarcastic and borderline hostile look, but his eyes softened when he saw Lattimer pressed against Marshal’s side. He averted his gaze rapidly back to the TV.

Lattimer reached for the dog with his uninjured hand, hid his face against Marshal’s chest, and five seconds later was sobbing in Marshal’s arms.

“I’m not ditching you here, okay?” said Marshal. “I won’t leave until you feel like you can handle it.”

Even if he had to spend the night in jail, he wasn’t about to abandon this guy. Lattimer was so frightened and vulnerable he might as well be staring down the barrel of a rifle again, but this time there was damn well going to be someone who cared on the other end.

“My dog,” said Lattimer in a choked voice. “The bastards broke into my house and sh - killed him. He’s gone. There’s no lawsuit in the world that’ll undo it.”

Marshal tried to think of something, anything, that would be comforting in this situation. It was still new to him, the impact his words and actions had on people. He was just a kid with a gun and an FBI badge, and the props turned him into something different.

Lattimer was years older than him, had a wife and kids and owned a house. But he would listen to and believe what Marshal said, because of those trappings of authority.

“You’re safe,” Marshal said in the gentlest voice he could manage. “Your family is safe. It’s going to take a long time, but you will heal from this. It’s going to be okay one day.”

Lattimer nodded and sniffed, and Marshal stroked Buddy’s back. He struggled to recall anything his instructors at Quantico might have had to say on the topic and came up short. FBI training was at once insanely comprehensive and laughably inadequate. Marshal could give lectures on the psychology of trauma in crime victims, make a complete tactical assessment of his position here in the jail, detail the legal and constitutional ramifications of the raid on Lattimer’s house….

He was sitting behind bars with a lapful of equally inexperienced therapy dog and an armful of traumatized crying inmate. He had no idea what to do.

 _Be a human_.

Like the deputy had said, this wasn’t Shawshank. Screw worshiping toughness.

“It’s totally okay to feel scared and betrayed and furious and humiliated and just completely awful,” said Marshal, tugging Lattimer against his side and rubbing his arm. “Those were criminals with badges, and a badge is an awful, awful weapon to use in a crime. You can look at the rest of us with fear and hate now, and none of us will blame you. Or if you’ve got a hell of a lot of courage, you can lean on us. Law enforcement is a big family, with shitty bigoted in-laws and abusive drunk uncles and crazy control-freak cousins. But we’ve got wagons to circle and a morbid sense of humor and strong shoulders to cry on, and we don’t look away awkwardly when everything goes sideways. We’re protective as hell and we know good lawyers and make burgers and gumbo.”

Lattimer half sniffed, half chuckled, and Marshal petted his shoulder some more.

“Likely I’ll be needing a few of those,” said Lattimer. “Do they come in squadrons?”

“The term in my law school was a disputation of lawyers,” said Marshal. “We could get you several disputations, that should cover it. I’m not kidding, if you let them, the law enforcement officers in this community will be filling your fridge and driving your kids to school and leaving puppies on your doorstep like sacrificial offerings.”

“They gave me a dog,” said Buddy’s handler, Harry Adkins. “I lost my wife and my baby girl, bein’ sent in here. I’ll always hate the law for that. It ain’t cuddly like Mister FBI here makes it out to be. The law’s cold and cruel an’ it punishes you more than jail alone ever could. But they gave a miserable prisoner who wanted to die a dog from death row to train an’ save. I’ll say this for ‘em, they try. Sometimes, for a few of us, it works out an’ you can make your way back from misery.”

Marshal shot Adkins an appreciative look. This was a stranger and more touching experience then he ever could have imagined having in a jail. Maybe there was something to this whole therapy dog thing. He glanced at Anderson, the deputy, who gave him a shrewd sideways smile.

“You’ll make it,” said Marshal, talking to Lattimer softly. “You’re safe, and you’ll make it to the other side of this.”

“No,” said Lattimer. “We’re not safe. You guys are leaving.” His voice was weak. “You have any idea how scary that is?”

Marshal shifted under Buddy’s weight, and the dog’s tail thumped against the back of the couch.

“From a political standpoint, it’s terrifying we’re being pulled out,” Marshal said. “But we aren’t abandoning you guys. The county attorney is still prosecuting every case we’ve developed against the ATF. We’ll be testifying and presenting evidence.”

Anderson cleared his throat and addressed Lattimer. “Far as you fellas go, ACLU’s got a team here working to get your charges dismissed. They got the support of Gillis and the county attorney.”  
Lattimer was silent.

Marshal tightened his arm around the crumbled man. “Get yourself and your whole family into therapy, okay? Fast. Don’t think that because the legal system marches forward and broken bones heal and kids go back to school, you’re supposed to just get over it. They’re going to look to dad, and you can’t carry this load on your own shoulders while you’re traumatized yourself. Lead them into therapy so you have help.”

Lattimer nodded weakly.

“Sheriff Gillis’s put together a law enforcement support group,” said Anderson. “I know you and your kids are scared of us now, and probably don’t want anything to do with us. But a bunch of us, deputies, cops, FBI, have all been volunteering to spend time with kids, help find lawyers and therapists, drive to doctors, whatever it takes. I’d like you to call us, please.”

Lattimer raised his head and looked Marshal in the eyes. He seemed to have finally decided to treat Marshal as safe. “Are these guys for real?”

“Yes,” said Marshal. “Accept help. You need it, and you need to know people care. Your kids especially need to meet people in uniform that aren’t dangerous. Right now, you need lawyers, therapists, and support.”

Lattimer studied Deputy Anderson. “So I’m not going to be beaten in some dark hallway for supposedly attacking a federal agent?”

Anderson smiled sadly. “We aren’t dumb thugs, Mr. Lattimer. We know what self-defense is.”

“This place is nicer than I imagined,” admitted Lattimer. “I imagined a lot more cells and yelling and beatings and gray walls.”

“We got plenty of cells and yelling elsewhere,” said Anderson. “But we’re not any more cruel than we are dumb. Nobody gets put in a higher-security area than they need to be in.”

Lattimer’s head fell. “How can those ATF agents exist in the same spectrum as you, and Marshal? I feel like I’m the prisoner of violent home-invaders who put me and my family in the hospital and then locked me in the basement and proceeded to be really nice to me.”

Anderson snorted in amusement. “There’s no such thing as the government, or the Sheriff’s Department, or the police. Just people, individuals who work for those agencies. Some are bastards, some of us try really hard, and everything in between.”

“So it’s all random. And I just randomly won the grand prize of a hospitalized family, a dead dog, and some light torture,” said Lattimer with a defeated note in his voice.

The deputy looked as grim as Marshal felt. “Honestly, Mr. FBI, I’m worried.” His voice was a relaxed drawl, but his expression was dead serious.

“A jail’s like a pressure chamber that shows up all the little cracks in a community,” said Anderson. “We got twelve guys in here thanks to the ATF, not counting the ones as made bail. They literally been beaten, locked up, and got the sympathy of every person inside and out of this place. Without the FBI doing it, this community’s gonna back these guys and not in a warm and fuzzy sorta way.”

Lattimer was listening to the conversation, starting to get sleepy and sedated.

The TV caught Marshal’s attention, and his stomach tightened. There was a mob forming outside the Capitol, the White House in the background. With rifles.

Marshal looked at the deputy. “Can we turn that up?”

A perky female reporter in a studio somewhere was fighting to sound grave. “Let’s not forget how unprecedented it was for a red-state county sheriff to not only welcome an FBI civil rights enforcement team and the ACLU into his jurisdiction, but to actually be the one to summon them.”

A man with salt-and-pepper hair nodded. “What it means is Gwinnett County is not only at the end of its rope, but this sheriff made a good-faith effort to fight back through legal means while maintaining his controversial stance. There’s nowhere left for residents to turn.”

The woman chipped in again. “You’re right, Tom. He’s losing control of this situation he created, but nobody can accuse this sheriff of provoking a mob mentality. The county’s population was so vehement in their opposition they started smuggling weapons in by the crate the day this law was signed.”

The scene switched, the camera panning to a protest forming outside the Gwinnett County courthouse and a man with a rifle over his shoulder.

“If the FBI won’t take care of these bastards for us, we’ll handle it ourselves.” The protester sounded excited by the prospect. “We won’t surrender our Second Amendment rights, even if it means a fight.”

The female reporter started a voice-over. “The war between the FBI and the ATF ended today when senior White House officials ordered the FBI to withdraw their civil rights team from Gwinnett County.”

Marshal snorted. Ended? ATF was going to get a hell of a surprise tomorrow then, when he arrested Haynes. The order was to wrap it up and leave, and they were going to take a rather broad view of what “wrapping it up” entailed.

The crowd outside the Capitol was shouting and holding rifles overhead. One of the protesters stormed up to the camera, an accusing finger pointed at a reporter.

“You need any more proof? Huh? The Feds are itching to erase the Second Amendment and annihilate our civil liberties. Ain’t gonna happen, folks.”

“You know the day I never thought I’d be seein’? The one where the F-B-effing-I were the ones standing on the line protecting our freedoms from the feds. But I guess they ain’t supposed to have been doin’ that, or they done it too well for those boys up in Washington.”

An FBI spokesman cleared his throat. “If I may ....we’re exceedingly grateful for the community support our team has received in Georgia, and we consider it our duty to uphold the constitution. But I should make it clear that we take no political stance on gun control, we’re not taking sides here. Our mission in Gwinnet County is to investigate allegations of unlawful and unconstitutional conduct by members of the ATF. It’s not the gun issue we’re addressing, it’s one of excessive force and unlawful search and seizure.”

The higher volume attracted attention, and FBI Agent Marshal Tate found himself watching TV in jail with a crowd of petty criminals, a dog, and a deputy sheriff. And a traumatized assault suspect half asleep in his arms.

Every extremist nutcase looked to be out in force, but worse, they were joined by moderate right-wingers. Even liberals horrified by unchecked abuse of power were throwing their hats into the ring.

A slightly calmer man was being interviewed outside the Gwinnett County courthouse. “People in Georgia like their guns, and don’t take to bullies. We’re a law abiding lot. Even with a thing like this people are willing to let the FBI do their work.”

“So what do you think is going to happen now?” asked the reporter.

“Well....If the government don’t like the FBI standin’ up for our rights, then they really not gonna like how we do it.”

* * *

Marshal glanced at his watch, and Lattimer spoke quietly. “Go home - or - hotel, or whatever, FBI. Thank you.”

“You gonna be okay?”

Lattimer took a deep breath. “Am I?”

“Yes,” said Marshal firmly. “You got this.”

“I got this,” said Lattimer, his voice faint but steady.

Marshal pulled a business card out of his pocket. “Call me any time. Doesn’t have to be related to the case. If you ever wanted a friend in the FBI, you got one.”

Lattimer smiled. Truly, genuinely smiled, right down to his eyes.

Marshal bit his inner lip, trying to contain how much that delighted him. _I love my job._

 

 


End file.
